Syndicate

Jun. 12th, 2017

[News-ish, Jeze and Rory]

[She's spent days nearly dug completely into the dirt of her garden. The morning after the memories fade, the plants around town that had died show signs of new sprouts coming out of the dirt next to the dried stems. The dead parts don't resurrect, but new growth appears.]

[News]

[Around town, certain plants begin to wither, like the life is being sucked out of them. It starts toward the south of town and proceeds northward. It's not all of them, but it is some of the ones that always seem to grow the best through the seasons. There's one outside Sonrisa, several around Chrysalis, one near the front door of the arcade, and a black peony currently at home on the arcade's roof. As well a number that have been planted near graves in the cemetery. It seems random, no pattern visible and not in one particular location. It takes them about an hour to die and dry up, becoming brittle and brown.]

Apr. 18th, 2017

log: rory & may @ her cottage

[In the weeks since he'd turned up on May's doorstep beaten and bruised, things had been quiet for Rory. He'd kept to himself for the most part, investing very little time in the forums and even less time in the local bars. The mystery of the facility where he'd been contained for all those months was still very much a mystery unsolved, and Rory had a less than keen interest on sticking his neck out for a choke chain to drag im back there. One night, when the moon was high, the hound had gone sniffing around his old motel room and found the place newly inhabited, notably absent of the scent of gun oil or whiskey or himself. All of his things were gone, likely pawned off by the shit hole's owner. And sure, he could have gotten mean and gotten answers, but it seemed smarter to lie low until he knew more about the science/military/what-the-fuck-ever facility across town.

So Rory, begrudgingly, did not eat the motel owner on that night. He didn't frequent his old bars. He didn't go anywhere or do anything unless it was a night when the moon called his hound self out to play. Sobriety and boredom didn't sit well in the soured old stomach of a washed up Irishman. The party had been a nice distraction, but now he had a renewed interest in going out among the town. It made him clench his back teeth most nights, and he was a bitter asshole on most mornings.

Needless to say that May and himself had learned to avoid one another whenever possible in the small cottage where Rory was currently taking up space in a back room. This was more Rory's design than May's, although she seemed to get the hint and let the hound be. He kept quiet and he kept clean, he might as well have been a ghost living alongside her.

So this morning was a rare sighting when Rory, scruffy in boxers and a black beater that showed off the Celtic cross tattooed in ancient ink on his arm, walked out of the back work room and into the kitchen. The little cottage was quiet when he began to ransack the cupboards for a cup and some tea.]

Jan. 6th, 2017

[Delivery: Loot]

[Saturday morning, there is a small item hanging above the door of Loot, the colors of it bright enough to attract attention (even with all the neon around). A sprig of flowering coronilla* and a single piece of wheat**, the stalks wrapped together with orange*** thread. The thread is snagged on a tiny imperfection in the door's frame, near one of the upper corners. It doesn't hang down to obstruct the door at all, it's just... there.]

Jan. 1st, 2017

[Public]

[May doesn't usually drink, and the calendar doesn't mean a whole lot to her. But this year's New Year's Eve sees her opening a bottle that had been given to her in barter many many years ago. The contents are sharp and sweet and exceedingly strong. And after she looks out her window to see her new greenhouse. With no indication of who she's talking to.]

thank you

[May wakes up the next morning, and after making herself some very strong tea for her head and stomach, cringes at her ridiculous display on the forum. The post is deleted in its entirety, from initial entry to all the comments. Nothing remains.]

Dec. 27th, 2016

[News: Chrysalis]

[Beginning on Tuesday, Chrysalis opens for slightly reduced hours. Compared to the outgoing young red-headed store owner, the woman that sits in one of the shop's more comfortable chairs is old and nearly silent. The store cat, Morgaine, often stays curled on the woman's lap, being pet and stroked by fingers that look stiff with the outside cold. She only rises from the chair when a customer needs help finding something, or needs to pay for their chosen items. The few words she speaks are rough with her age, though the grey of her eyes is sharp with the thoughts behind them. And while she doesn't lash out at the customers, neither is she especially friendly. She assures everyone, if they ask, that Jezebelle will return within two weeks, and that she is only a temporary substitute.

When she moves outside of the store, the woman walks with a cane. Though she doesn't lean heavily on it, it's there if she needs. Her clothing is large enough to engulf her body, and the coat she wears is quilted layers of down against the winter chill. Her hair is pulled back into a thick, iron-grey braid, and once she moves beyond the immediate vicinity of the shop, it's like she was never there at all. Until she shows up the next day.]

May L

May L

[On the day of the 23rd, the materials for the greenhouse show up in May's backyard, but it isn't until the 26th that several people do. They range in ages - the oldest nearing sixty, the youngest appearing to be in his late 20's, early 30's maybe, but they all settle into work like they know what they're doing and within a couple of days, the structure is complete and ready for whatever May decides to grow.]